


With My Back Turned and Heart Open

by HewerOfCaves



Series: Fëanorian Week 2019 Stories [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 02:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18202391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: “I am afraid the news is not good. Doriath has fallen.”Celebrimbor froze, while Gil-galad gasped and leaped to his feet. “What?” he cried, “Has Morgoth’s arm reached that far?”“It wasn’t Morgoth,” Círdan said.Written forFëanorian weekDay 5- Curufin - >Childhood, Fëanor, Forge work,Celebrimbor,Manipulation, Ruling of Nargothrond





	With My Back Turned and Heart Open

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote another thing for Curufin's day, but Curufin isn't in the story. Celebrimbor is, though!
> 
> There isn't much we know about Celebrimbor after Nargothrond and before Second Age, so I decided that he went to Balar. Where else would he go? Tolkien Gateway says that he lived in Gondolin for a while, but it doesn't make sense. At least, not for Celebrimbor son of Curufin.
> 
> Not a native speaker, not beta'd.

As was usual for winter, Balar was enveloped in thick mist, and Celebrimbor didn’t notice that there was another figure hurrying to Círdan’s residence until he almost bumped into it.

“Careful there,” said Gil-galad’s voice, too awake for the hour.

“It hasn't even dawned yet, please don’t sound so chipper,” Celebrimbor muttered. 

Gil-galad laughed and slung an arm around Celebrimbor’s shoulders. “Did Círdan send for you too?” he asked.

“Yes, what do you think happened?”

Gil-galad shrugged. “Probably nothing good or it could have waited,” he said.

In his heart, Celebrimbor agreed with him, but such pessimistic attitude from someone so young didn’t sit right with him. 

“Maybe he has prepared a feast,” he suggested, “By chance, isn’t today your begetting day?”

“I don’t think so,” Gil-galad said.

By then, they had already reached Círdan’s residence and were invited to the great hall, where Círdan and several others were waiting. The whispers immediately ceased and all the eyes focused on the newcomers.

“No feast,” Gil-galad mouthed to Celebrimbor.

There was still a smile on the young Elf’s face, but Celebrimbor’s heart squeezed unpleasantly when he saw Círdan’s grave look directed at him.

“Good morning, lords and ladies,” Celebrimbor said, bowing his head, “What’s the reason for this unexpected gathering?”

Círdan invited them to sit and only then started talking. “I am afraid the news is not good,” he said, “Doriath has fallen.”

Celebrimbor froze, while Gil-galad gasped and leaped to his feet. “What?” he cried, “Has Morgoth’s arm reached that far?”

“It wasn’t Morgoth,” Círdan said.

Celebrimbor wished Círdan would stop talking. He wished he could bolt out, but he was nailed to his chair, helpless under the heavy gazes of the lords and ladies of Balar.

“Who then?” Gil-galad asked, “The Dwarves? But why…”

“It was the Sons of Fëanor.”

Celebrimbor’s world started spinning. Gil-galad went rigid. “It cannot be,” he said.

“They attacked Doriath a few weeks ago,” said Lord Redhron. He addressed Gil-galad, but he was looking at Celebrimbor. “The refugees reached the Havens yesterday night.”

“The King?” Gil-galad asked.

“Dead,” Círdan said. He didn’t try to hide his grief. “As is the Queen and their sons.”

Celebrimbor closed his eyes and tried to breathe in slowly through his nose to fight off nausea.

“Do we know for certain that the Fëanorians are to blame?” Gil-galad asked, “Why would they turn against their own kind?”

“For the Silmaril, of course,” Celebrimbor said.

Gil-galad looked at him surprised, as though he had forgotten Celebrimbor was there.

“What else?” Celebrimbor said. 

His voice came out hoarse, and Gil-galad frowned in concern. Tears pricked Celebrimbor’s eyes. He averted his gaze.

“I refuse to believe Lord Maedhros is capable of such a heinous act,” Gil-galad continued. Celebrimbor was almost sure that the younger Elf was doing it for his sake, but he wished he wouldn’t. 

“The Noldor already committed such a heinous act once, Lord Gil-galad,” said Lady Naurien pointedly, “Before even reaching these shores, they slaughtered our kin and stole their ships. It was long before you were born, so maybe you have not been taught that story, but _he_ surely knows.” 

She was looking intently at Celebrimbor, and the fire in her eyes could put the Calaquendi to shame. 

Gil-galad deflated, apparently realizing that he and Celebrimbor were the only two Noldor present. Celebrimbor bit his tongue and didn’t mention that the Noldor had come to the aid of the Sindar and had put an end to the siege of the Falas.

“Are there many survivors?” he asked instead.

It was a risky question. He hoped Círdan and his people wouldn't realize he was inquiring about his family, but would still disclose their fates in their talk about the survivors of Doriath. 

Círdan sent him a loaded look. “A few hundred,” he said, “Mostly young Elves. Several Doriathrim lords have also survived, as has your aunt Galadriel.” 

Celebrimbor let out a relieved breath. He had always been fond of Galadriel. Círdan hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Princess Elwing, daughter of Dior, is also among the survivors.”

A murmur of discontent rose: the lord and ladies of Balar apparently hadn’t wanted to share that news with the Noldorin princes. 

“What about the Fëanorians?” Gil-galad asked, “Did they recover the jewel?”

“They didn’t, as far as we know,” Círdan said.

“They suffered heavy losses,” Lady Naurien said, not without glee, “Three of Fëanor’s sons met their demise in Menegroth.”

“Who?” Celebrimbor whispered, unable to stop himself.

“What were their names, Redhron?” Naurien asked.

Lord Redhron frowned for a moment. “Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin,” he said finally.

Celebrimbor didn’t make a sound, but a tear escaped his eye. He wiped it away quickly, but he was sure it had been noticed. There would be a talk about it later, about how he had cried for kinslayers, for the father he had repudiated. He didn’t care about it at that moment. Círdan and his people started discussing the needs of the refugees and the support Balar could provide, but Celebrimbor wasn’t listening. All he could think about was his family that had slaughtered innocents for a jewel, that had destroyed one of the greatest Elven realms, that had aided the Enemy. All he could think about was his uncle Celegorm, who once had kept Celebrimbor on his shoulders for hours, so he would be taller than anyone; his uncle Caranthir, who had always found a smile for him, no matter how angry he had been; and his father, his father, who had loved him, who had taught him, whom Celebrimbor’s had idolized. Now they were gone, his father was gone, and the last thing Celebrimbor had told him was that he never wanted to see him again. Well, now he wouldn’t.

Tears welled up his eyes, and he pressed his hands to his face. He was more aware now of the almost hostile gazes on him. He knew he shouldn’t be making a scene. These people had accepted him and had given him shelter, and now he was crying for those who had killed their kin. But it was hard to think about it past the grief clouding his mind.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he jumped. Gil-galad was leaning over him, his brows furrowed. The meeting appeared to be over. The members of the council were leaving, casting last suspicious glances at Celebrimbor. 

“Are you coming?” Gil-galad asked.

Celebrimbor nodded. He accepted Gil-galad’s offered hand gratefully and rose to his feet.

“Would you please wait for a moment, Celebrimbor?” Círdan asked.

Celebrimbor’s heart skipped a bit. “Of course,” he said, sitting back down.

“Círdan?” Gil-galad said. He was standing straight, and the rays of the rising sun coming from the window painted his hair in gold. He looked like a king. 

“Do not worry,” Círdan said with a tired smile.

“I will be waiting outside,” Gil-galad said.

Círdan sat in front of Celebrimbor.

“I am sorry,” Celebrimbor started before Círdan could say a word, “I know I shouldn’t be grieving for them when so many have died by their hand. And I grieve for Doriath too, I do. I will do all I can to help the refugees. I will work day and night. But I cannot stop feeling what I feel. It is beyond my strength.”

“I did not ask you to stay to tell you who you should or shouldn’t grieve for,” Círdan says, “I only wanted to assure you that no one will trouble you because of the deeds of your family.”

Celebrimbor blinked, opened his mouth to answer but found no words.

“Redhron and Naurien went to the Mouth of Sirion last night and came back,” Círdan continued, “They have seen and heard terrible things and, naturally, they are angry. But it is not fair of them to lash out on you. They will realize it.”

“I doubt it after the scene I just made,” Celebrimbor said bitterly.

“You made no scene,” Círdan said, “You were remarkably restrained for someone who had just gotten terrible news. No one can blame you for grieving for your father and close kin. I remember them when they first arrived, angry and hopeful and strong. They brought a new hope with them, a hope that we could fight against the dark." Círdan shook his head and looked at Celebrimbor. "Despite everything they have done, they are your family, and no one will demand from you to put aside centuries of love and respect.” He smiled. “And I will not have you work yourself into exhaustion, especially that you are already doing it. We will need your skills, of course, but not at the cost of your well-being. Is it clear?”

Celebrimbor nodded. He wanted to thank Círdan, but, embarrassingly, tears started forming again. He closed his eyes with his palm and rested his forehead on the table. Círdan put his hand on the younger Elf’s shaking shoulder and sat with him as Celebrimbor grieved for the family he had lost.


End file.
